


Never to Touch, Never to Keep

by Lady_Vibeke



Series: A Thin Red Line Between Stubborn Spirits [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blind Cara, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Injury Recovery, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Temporary Blindness, Unresolved Romantic Tension, taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21977206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Vibeke/pseuds/Lady_Vibeke
Summary: "So, what happens when we run out of wounds?"Din's heart skips a beat.He knows what she's truly asking:'What happens when we run out of excuses to be all over each other?'It's a question he's been purposely avoiding asking himself. Which is stupid, because they're both adults and they should be able to talk about feelings and implications without hiding behind silly metaphors, but it seems like they can't find the guts to come clean with each other just yet. It's fair, he reasons. There are too many variables at stake.And yet this time, at least a little bit, he's willing to take a chance.He stands, walks up to her, and sits back on the table beside her. Cara won't turn to him, still stubbornly focused on the cloth. Din folds his arms, lazily crosses one foot over the other, then finally says:"We go looking for some trouble?"
Relationships: Baby Yoda & Cara Dune, Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Cara Dune/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Series: A Thin Red Line Between Stubborn Spirits [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579576
Comments: 42
Kudos: 494





	Never to Touch, Never to Keep

**Author's Note:**

> I made up a few things here (such as the planet and everything on it except for the dewbacks). If there are canon-wise inaccuracies, it's totally understandable. Sorry about that.

Hesper VI is a small, sandy planet a few light years from Tatooine. Din never had the arguable pleasure to visit it before and, frankly, he could have lived without setting foot on its barren ground, but he needed a quiet place to lay low, for the kid and Cara to rest safely for a few days after the battle of Nevarro. Besides, he didn’t mind the idea of a little time off for himself, either.

Most of these people are farmers, making their living with the oil they get from the dwarf palms they cultivate in the desert; _tourist_ is a word that isn’t even translatable in the local dialect and the closest term they have for it is _traveller._ Din makes it do when he asks for a secluded accommodation for himself and his family. It’s just easier and safer, he tells himself, to introduce them as a family, rather than a fugitive bounty hunter with a stolen target and a rebel trooper, and it’s either a very convincing lie or the locals are exceptionally naive, because they seem to buy it straight away.

They get a hut in the outskirts of Rah'Nii, the largest village on the planet, counting a crowd of three hundred and fifteen inhabitants, plus a small herd of dewbacks.

The hut is modest and lacks most of the basic amenities Din could really use right now – a shower, for instance – but there is a large tank full of clean water and it’s more than he expected. Something he failed to take into account is that the kind farmers would provide a double bed for a family with a little one.

Cara stands in the middle of the room where he guided her and seems to read into his hesitation, catching his exact stream of thoughts.

“Let me guess: there’s just one bed.”

“I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Cara proceeds carefully until her knees bump into the bed frame. She circles around it following its border with her hands.

“Don’t be stupid,” she scoffs. “This is large enough for both of us.”

The implication that she has no problem sharing a bed with him makes Din tense under his armour. He’s sweating. He needs to get rid of it as soon as possible.

Cara waddles tentatively around the room, feeling her way through the furniture. She’s still visibly limping: the wound in her thigh has been giving her a hard time and there are only so many painkillers she can take without unpleasant side effects.

Din puts the child into his cot and leaves him floating by the window, soaking up the sun, then goes to Cara and makes her sit down on the bed.

The torrid temperature on this hole of a planet is insufferable. He makes sure the kid is still facing the window, then removes his helmet and tosses it on the bed next to Cara.

“Let me check that.”

"It's fine,” she tries to object as he kneels in front of her.

“No, it’s not.” Din glares, then remembers she can’t see him, so he opts to smack her shin instead.

The fabric of Cara's pants is spotted with brownish stains of dried blood, meaning the stitches worked but not as well as they should have. They need to be very careful in order to prevent infections.

"We need to change the dressing,” he observes with a frown. “Some bacta wouldn't hurt, too.” There isn’t much left: their next stop needs to be somewhere civilised enough to provide a refill for their medical supplies.

"If you're so eager to get me out of my pants, you could just ask, you know?" Cara quips, and Din wishes he wasn’t so aware of the blush crawling up his face.

"As handsome as your legs are,” he says as flatly as he can. “My main concern right now is to make sure you don't lose one.”

Cara rolls her eyes. Somehow, they are even more expressive now that she can’t see. Not that Din has been paying any particular attention.

She complies, muttering unintelligible complaints under her breath while he helps her out of her pants to examine the wound directly. The child coos in his cot across the room, entertained by a bug flying around his head. Din smiles.

He takes his time removing the bloodied dressing; it’s not soaked but there’s more blood than expected and the skin around the wound is hot and angry red.

He gets the medical kit from his backpack and starts cleaning and disinfecting. The whole time, Cara’s eyes stare aimlessly ahead right above his head.

“You realise I could have done this myself, right?" she remarks after a while.

Din looks up at her.

She’s right, of course, but he can’t just tell her he enjoys taking care of her. That would sound wrong and completely different from what he actually would mean. It’s too complicated to talk about.

There is just too much to his relationship with Cara that he still needs to figure out. Sometimes he believes he feels drawn to her out of admiration and respect, other times he feels there is more, not a mere attraction, but something deeper and way more compromising that he just doesn’t have the guts to unravel.

It’s just that there is this aura of strength about Cara that makes Din crave for physical contact in a way he’s never experienced before, and if he can't have exactly the sort of contact he yearns, he'll be content with engaging any kind of interaction, be it an arm wrestling match or a not entirely necessary examination.

"Do you want to do it yourself?" he offers, feigning irritation. Cara doesn’t fall for it: she pokes him in the chest with her foot and, smirking, leans back, propped on her hands.

"You know what, I think I'll just sit back and enjoy the pampering."

Din quirks a brow. "You call this pampering?"

The shape Cara’s eyes take when she smiles – like a moon crescent facing downward – causes a warm flutter within Din's chest.

"A girl has to take what she gets,” she says coyly.

Din shakes his head. This woman is going to be the death of him.

Once clean from the dried blood, the wound appears better than he had feared: it’s too soon to remove the stitches, but there doesn't seem to be anything worse than an understandable inflammation.

"Looking good,” he comments, relieved.

"Why, thank you."

Din rolls his eyes again. He’s so glad she can’t see him grin so pathetically. He has a reputation to uphold.

"It's healing well,” he rephrases, making sure to inject enough annoyance to wipe that little smirk from her face. It doesn't work. He smirks, too.

After this, Cara is uncharacteristically quiet. If Din didn't know better, he would think she's watching him smear a thin layer of bacta over her wound. It _looks_ like she's watching, immobile and wistful, but she's just _feeling,_ her breath hitching faintly every time he brushes over her skin.

“I'm afraid it's going to scar.” His forefinger runs gently over the line of stitches. They're a thick, black glare upon Cara's complexion. “My sewing skills are rusty."

Cara shrugs. “What's another scar among all of that?” She nods at her naked legs, at the tens of marks they bear. “I never cared much about my looks, anyway."

"Easy to say for a beautiful woman,” Din says before he even knows he's thinking that. It doesn't happen very often that he catches himself by surprise, and it's not a feeling he's especially fond of, but this woman, here, seems to have mysterious powers on him. “It's a statement,” he adds quickly. “Not a compliment."

"Twice as flattering, then,” says Cara. Her tone and her grin are flirtatious, but there's something in her eyes, like a shimmering shadow, making Din wonder if a shard of what he's feeling is pulsing within her, too.

“I'll be pretty proud of whatever scar that might leave."

Din has his own share of scars he's rather proud of, so he can't say he doesn't understand. This doesn't mean he doesn't feel sorry for dragging her into this mess. Then again, he's not sure he would be here at all if it hadn't been for her.

He sits back on his heels, hands resting on her knees as his thumbs draw small circles without any reason other than it feels right.

"How's your sight?"

Cara huffs. "Not much different from when you last asked _three hours ago."_

Glaring is an art Cara must have spent an awful lot of time perfectioning, because she does it impressively well.

Din lets out a long sigh, guilt coiling in his gut. It's been a week, there should have been some improvement by now. He checks her pupils with a flashlight, just to make sure: there's no response, not the slightest. His hands reluctantly leave her face to set the flashlight down. She seems calm, but there is a question lingering between them, unspoken.

_What if her sight never comes back?_

He’s not sure he’ll be able to forgive himself if this happened. It was her choice to follow Din in this mayhem and it was still her choice to risk her life for the kid. Nonetheless, Din feels responsible for her, for some reason, and the very thought of Cara being permanently blind makes his stomach twist.

 _You could be around her without hiding yourself,_ suggests a voice in his conscience. _She would also need you to survive._

It’s a horrible, selfish thought that is very much unlike him. He chases it away, ashamed of it – of himself. Cara deserves better than this.

"If nothing changes in the next couple of days, we're going to have to get you to a medic,” he says, a heavy weight setting upon his chest.

Cara sits silently, hands joined between her knees.

"I'm sure that won't be necessary,” she replies after a while, and Din doesn’t miss how her voice cracks imperceptibly. “How's your burn?" she inquires, staring in his general direction. She gropes her way up his neck until she meets his jaw, then his cheek.

Din automatically brings his hand upon hers. The skin there, scorched and marred, has barely improved. He might have forgotten to tend to it, too worried about Cara's situation and the kid's well-being to spend a single thought for himself.

"Burns," he deadpans, unable to dismiss the question with a prompt, convincing lie.

Cara tries to conceal her amusement with a scoff. "You don't say?"

Din chuckles. If he were honest, he would admit it's the warmth of her touch burning, not the burn itself, but he's afraid she'll think he doesn't want her exactly where she is if he tells her.

Cara examines him with feather touches of the tips of her fingers, assessing the the lack of progression in his healing with such precision Din is glad he didn't lie about it. Cara would have eaten him alive if he had.

"Hand over the bacta,” she orders unceremoniously. She opens her palm, waiting, and scowls when it stays empty. “What?” she snaps, as if sensing his bewilderment. “Least I can do is reciprocate your kindness."

She's blind, and injured, and still determined to make herself useful.

"You don't have to,” Din mutters, against his own interest – because, in fact, he wouldn't really mind if she kept this going for hours. It's weird, actually, because her touch does burn, but her fingers are pleasantly cool and soothing over his blistered cheek.

"I know,” she says, a corner of her mouth rising with an impish curl. “I just want an excuse to touch your face and figure out your features.” She traces the back of her hand down the unscathed side of his face. “You shaved."

The fire blazing at the pit of Din's stomach is most certainly due to the unbearable heat and has nothing to do with anything else taking place at the moment.

"Makes it easier to keep the burn clean," he says, voice slightly choked. He prays Cara doesn't notice. She's busy exploring his features, her expression curious and scientifically focused. The nasty, selfish thought from before strikes again, making Din bitter with shame.

 _Stare at her all you want,_ whispers the voice in his conscience. _She can't see you, can't see the way you look at her. Can't punch you for goggling._

"High cheekbones,” Cara notes through her exploration, head tilted to one side. “Neat jawline. Rounded chin." She makes a funny expression, something between a frown and a chuckle, as her fingertips linger along the crooked line of his nose. "What happened to this poor thing?" she giggles.

Din is trapped in a warm haze, unable to breathe or move, let alone think. It takes him a little too long to process the question. He licks his lips, mouth dry, and says: "Fractures don't heal particularly well pressed under a helmet."

Something clenches beneath his breastbone when Cara smiles.

"I can see that."

"You actually _can't,"_ he can't help retorting. He pays for it: Cara's pissed punch on his shoulder shows no mercy for his innocent joke.

"I will hurt you,” she hisses, and, besides the fact that she already _has,_ it doesn't feel like a threat at all. Maybe it would, if she didn't sound so amused.

"Please, consider I have a child under my protection."

“You can raise a child without an arm,” she points out while applying the bacta on his burn.

“I can barely keep up with him with _two.”_

It makes her grin, which makes Din grin inwardly in return. He could do this all day just to see that light brighten up her face.

"You haven't been using the ointment I gave you, have you?” she scolds. He has no idea how she knows. “I'm not kidding, man: if the scar tissue gets too thick, you won't be able to grow your precious beard back.”

“I forgot.”

He was more concerned about her leg rather than his own face, but this is something he can't tell her, not without opening a dangerous door. She's a big flirt, that is for sure, but he still hasn't been able to figure out if there's a genuine feeling beneath these jokes or she just wants to play around. He's not even sure where _he_ stands in all of this.

Cara sighs with a helpless shake of her head. “You forget to eat, you forget to take care of your injuries... You can't expect to protect anyone if you die.”

“Maybe I'm just not cut out for single parenting.”

“You're doing just fine with the kid. It's yourself you're terrible with.”

“I'm lucky I've got you, then.”

Din freezes at his own words. He didn’t _mean_ to say that. And yet-

He didn't know how true that is until he heard himself say it out loud.

He's got her.

It doesn't matter how, on which terms. He's got her, and as long as he does he's okay with whatever they have.

Cara doesn't speak, after that. So he's apparently found a way to render her speechless. He just wishes he knew if it's a good speechlessness or a bad one. He might have gone too far, this time; after all, he's still not sure he and Cara are on the same page about whatever is happening between them.

Feeling vulnerable and exposed, wanting to hide again, even though she can't see him, he slips his helmet back on. It feels heavier than it ever did.

Cara finds her way to the tiny table next to the bed and wipes her hands into a cloth she fishes out from Din's medical stuff.

He just sits there, trying very hard not to let his eyes wander to her bare legs. She puts too much effort and intent in folding the cloth back into a neat square, which she smooths down until every single wrinkle is gone. Her shoulders are stiff under the light fabric of her shirt.

"So, what happens when we run out of wounds?"

Din's heart skips a beat.

He knows what she's truly asking: _'What happens when we run out of excuses to be all over each other?'_

It's a question he's been purposely avoiding asking himself. Which is stupid, because they're both adults and they should be able to talk about feelings and implications without hiding behind silly metaphors, but it seems like they can't find the guts to come clean with each other just yet. It's fair, he reasons. There are too many variables at stake.

And yet this time, at least a little bit, he's willing to take a chance.

He stands, walks up to her, and sits back on the table beside her. Cara won't turn to him, still stubbornly focused on the cloth. Din folds his arms, lazily crosses one foot over the other, then finally says:

"We go looking for some trouble?"

There’s a number of subtle insinuations behind this statement. Din can see each of them flash across Cara’s mind through the petrified look in her eyes. She holds her breath, not daring to move a single muscle, listening with her whole body as a meaningful silence rises between them, and somehow it’s as deafening as a scream.

Then, excruciatingly slowly, just when Din is starting to fear he got it all wrong, a shy smile starts spreading on her lips.

“Sounds fun,” she mumbles softly.

Din turns to face her and she turns with him. There is a palpable tension between them, something he can feel crawling upon his skin rousing goosebumps all over.

And then the child's green ears pop out of thin air on the table between them. His cot is still floating by the window.

_How did he-_

Just as Din sees him trip into the cloth, Cara extends her arms to catch him right before he tumbles off the table.

"I have a feeling we won't even have to look too hard," she laughs, the kid burbling happily in her hands. Cara adjusts him against her chest. She's grown more comfortable around him, these last few days, and seeing her properly hold him instead of just manhandling him awkwardly does something to Din's heart he wasn’t prepared to face.

This is when an awareness abruptly kicks in: Cara shouldn't have been able to catch the child so promptly. She can't see, and yet she acted so smoothly it was like she _could._

Din suddenly realises something he already noticed at the periphery of his mind but didn't really process until now: she moves more confidently when he’s is in her immediate proximity.

Judging by Cara's pensive and mildly shocked face, she's thinking exactly the same thing.

She turns to him, brows furrowed over her blind gaze.

“Din.”

Hearing her say his name gives him a shiver of pleasure. The way it sounds on her voice...

“How did I _know_ he was there?”

Din needs a moment to mentally detach himself from the picture of Cara holding the baby so caringly. This is something he’s going to think about a lot in the next few days.

“You caught him as soon as I saw him trip.” He reaches out to caress the thin hair on the kid’s head with a crazy but very realistic idea, given the circumstances, buzzing in his brain. This little one is a real wonder. “You reacted to a stimulus _I_ received.”

“And that makes so much sense, right?” Cara replies, rather sceptically.

She has a point, of course.

"I think it's him,” Din elaborates. “He must have created some sort of... bond between us to allow you to perceive the environment through me."

It still sounds crazy, but he can see Cara’s scepticism morph into disbelief and then wonder. Like Din, thinking back to how things have been going lately, she’s starting to realise it actually makes sense.

"You mean he connected us? I mean, our-” She bites her lip. “Our senses?"

Din nods. "Something like that."

They both take a few seconds to take in this hypothesis. To be honest, this doesn’t feel as alien as it should, to Din, at least. He’s felt a connection with Cara ever since their first meeting and since then he only got confirmation over confirmation of this impression: the way they fight, both with and against each other, shows a synchrony in their movements it normally takes years, if not decades, to develop. There is this innate balance between them, this inexplicable synergy that simply came out of nowhere and makes them move, and think, and strike in perfect unison. Perhaps the child sensed this connection and exploited it to Cara’s benefit when necessity arose.

"Is it true, little brat?” says Cara, bouncing the kid in her embrace. “Is this your way to apologise for almost killing me?"

Din feels hot under his helmet. He’s still mortified for that. Cara was genuinely shocked and terrified.

"He didn't mean to-"

"I know,” she soothes at once. “I'm sure he was just copying your behaviour."

"You think so?"

"Mimicking is how children learn. You're his parental figure: he saw you fighting me, he imitated you."

Impressive. Din didn’t peg Cara as a child expert, and yet here she is, giving him lessons on developmental psychology. He has a lot to learn, it appears.

"I hadn't thought about that."

Cara runs a gentle caress down the child's head. "We're good, aren't we, kiddo?” She smiles down at him, then up in Din's direction. “He’s kinda growing on me."

He wonders if she realises she's switched from _it_ to _he_ when referring to the kid. And now he's feeling it again, that sharp tug in his chest, a silent longing aching deep inside him, calling, demanding.

He remembers something his Master once said to him when he had his first crush on an older boy in the clan. She said: _'If it doesn't hurt in your heart, don't bother calling it love, boy.'_

He sees what the Master meant, now.

"I'm glad."

Cara sits back on the table beside him, the baby cooing while tugging at a lock of her hair.

"Don't you go all soft on me, Mando," she warns. “I'm not ready to play mama yet."

Din hopes his tone can convey how intensely he’s arching his brows at her right now.

"Yet?"

"I was just saying."

"Sure."

He watches her rock the kid with such fondness he feels a little jealous. About whom, he isn’t sure. Things are changing around here, and Din hopes they can get a little time to adapt to these changes, to get used to their lives taking a different shape to mould into one another, to fit together into a single path. Din is all up for some long-term company along his lonely road, whatever this may lead to.

"You know,” Cara begins after a brief pause. “If you really want me to stick around, you could just ask nicely." There’s a chuckle fighting to surface on her lips.

"I want you to stick around,” Din says without hesitation.

The hint of pink that colours Cara’s cheeks tells Din that this is probably what she was hoping to hear.

"I said _nicely,”_ she has the nerve to argue.

Din bends his head in a small, condescending bow. "My lady,” he tries again, voice laced with dramatic passion. “Would you do me the immense honour of sticking around, should the idea compel you?"

He gets what he was aiming for: Cara laughs, black eyes shining under thick lashes. It’s almost scary how addictive this sound is.

"Now, that was a little overkill.” She nudges Din with a shoulder. “But I've got admit you know how to charm your way to a woman's heart."

"What do you think the cute kid is for?"

"Well, in my case, that would be a deterrent."

"You're still here, though."

Cara’s arms tighten around the child. The laughter fades from her eyes, leaving only a solemn, blank stare.

"I am."

And this might mean nothing to anyone's ears, but to Din... to him, this is everything.

"So you'll stay?"

She raises a shoulder. "Why not? I might not have much of a choice, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"I was just thinking... It’s been days, Mando.” Cara’s tone grows low and distant with her gaze. “There’s a chance that wasn't the usual blinding gas. Maybe it was a new prototype and the damage is permanent and I'll never-"

"It's not,” he cuts in, a bit too harshly. He doesn’t want to hear the rest. “You're gonna be okay, I promise."

"But what if I never regain my sight? I’d be a liability to you.”

“Cara-”

Her name tangles on his tongue. She’s right. She’s right and this would be all his fault.

“No, I mean it.” The child squirms at her blunt tone; she puts him down, and he toddles away, turning just one moment to cast a glance back at her. His ears flop down when she doesn't acknowledge it.

“I don’t want you to drag me along like a damn dead weight out of pity," she murmurs, facing away from Din as she sits back again.

Anger ignites in his veins.

Pity.

_Pity._

How can she even say this?

“You think it’s pity making me sit here looking after you?”

“What else would it be?”

Well.

This is a question he can’t answer. Not just yet. Not now that everything is so messy and fragile.

He just can’t believe that, of all the reasons he has in the world, she would choose to think he’s here out of _pity._

She stood by him, even when she could have easily blamed him for the loss of her sight and walked away on him; instead, she decided to stay, as if nothing had happened, and to entrust him with her own life in such a delicate moment.

Pity has nothing to do with why Din is here right now. She couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“You fought for me and the kid,” he stresses. “You have my gratitude, and my utmost respect.” He ignores the fact that he almost said something else. “If you don’t get your eyesight back, I’ll be right here. I will be your eyes."

"You will?"

There is a silent hope hidden in her aimless look. Din is familiar with this sort of look – the look of someone who is used to rely on no one but themselves; it makes him want erase it, to take her face between his hands and do something very stupid they both most certainly would enjoy and then regret.

So he just slides closer – telling himself one day, some day, there will be more – and smiles to himself when he feels her tense and then slowly, with a feeble sigh, relax.

"If you'll have me,” he whispers. “Yes."

She can’t fight the smile any longer. It spreads all across her face, up to her eyes. Seeing her smile like this is strangely gratifying.

“You’re so gonna regret this promise,” she comments, but doesn’t sound remotely as threatening as she probably intended. Din presses closer to her.

“I don’t think so.”

Cara's hands curl over the edge of the table, eyes transfixed into nothingness.

“You sound so sure of yourself.”

It hurts that she's saying this so brokenly, like she thought he's lying to her. He's not. He's never been so serious in his entire life.

He has to resist the urge to move his hand upon hers when he says: “Must be because I am.”

The heat of her thigh against his burns like her touch burned on his cheek. This closeness feels impossible to withstand; it punches the air out of Din's lungs, fuelling the longing in his chest, turning what began as a pale flame into a raging fire. A fire that flares dangerously when Cara does what he didn't dare to do and rests her hand over his, just for one second, barely the time for her to shake her head and sigh: “You’re a foolish man, Din Djarin.”

Her deep timbre stirs instincts Din has almost forgotten how to control. It's become so rare, for him, to be drawn to someone, and this woman right here, with her courage and her cheeky attitude, is like a damn magnet.

“That is my problem,” he mutters. “Not yours.”

Cara's pinky is still lingering, hooked over Din's and refusing to let go.

“Well, then.” She turns her chin in his direction. Her chest rises and falls with a deep breath. “I guess we have a deal."

Din considers their joint fingers. It's not much, but it's something. He can work with something. He was ready to walk out of this conversation with much less than that.

He nods, the helmet concealing the little smug grin curling his lips.

“Yeah.” His pinky tightens around hers. "I guess we do."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who commented the first installment! Keep it coming, guys, I need people who share my insane love for these two adorable idiots!
> 
> There will probably be more to follow, so stay tuned!


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